


Fallibility of the Fates

by Voreiska



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Anti-hero Morgana if were being honest, Arthur Finds Out About Merlin's Magic (Merlin), Arthur Knows About Merlin's Magic (Merlin), Episode: s02e03 The Nightmare Begins (Merlin), Fix-It of Sorts, Good Morgana (Merlin), M/M, Merlin's Magic Revealed (Merlin)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:34:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27866182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Voreiska/pseuds/Voreiska
Summary: Re-write (of sorts) of s02e03 The Nightmare BeginsIt was a fragile thing, to have magic, and the subsequent revealing of said magic. He thought, for a moment, that it may be possible, if only difficult, to help Morgana without saying, or showing, that he too possessed certain illicit abilities, but scrubbed the notion from his mind just as quickly. She deserved to know, and so now most of his hesitation bore from the humiliation of being the same and never disclosing, for he hated being a liar, but an honest sorcerer was an oxymoron. It was necessary to lie, sometimes, even, and especially, to close friends, who had much more power than strangers, because they were loved, and it was harder to imagine that they may hate him, one day.
Relationships: Gwen & Morgana (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 59





	1. The Dragon's Call(ing you to fix what you've done)

**Author's Note:**

> While this is an episode fix-it, I won't necessarily be following the canon timeline, though hopefully I can add those aspects in a realistic way. There's also no update schedule currently in place!  
> Con-crit welcome!

It had been something so small, so trivial, that Merlin couldn’t quite figure out if he wanted to laugh or cry at it all.

The Lady Morgana hadn’t meant to use magic then, nor had she expected for Merlin to choose that exact moment to walk in, but the vase suspended not two inches from the hard floor was difficult to ignore, and even more so to explain away, despite Gwen’s quick rebuttal to the fact.

“Oh!” She cried, looking both terrified and surprised as she shot a meaningful glance to Morgana, eye’s only just fading from that undeniable gold back to their careful green, “Merlin! I, uhm. I suppose the draft today is quite strong, is it not?”

The vase fell with an incriminating _snap!_. Morgana took a step back from where she stood at the end of her bed, eyes flitting from the broken pieces on the floor, to Gwen, to Merlin, and finally to the open windows, as if weighing the pros and cons to jumping rather than face the pyre that surely waited for her now. Merlin hadn’t yet said anything, though his shock lay not in the reveal of Morgana’s magic, as he had already been informed of her aptitude by Gaius, but that Gwen, _Gwen_ knew, and wasn’t running to Uther for it, was even attempting to reason away the rather obvious display of magic. It was a shock, to be suddenly put in the unfortunate situation of having to react with surprise to something one was already privy to, especially when that particular knowledge was only recognized by means of a rather intense and intricate web of secrets.

“I…” He tried, recognizing that he needed to say something, _anything_ , as the seconds ticked by and the three of them stood, not unlike the deer Arthur and his hunting party often accosted in the woods, in the sense that wild terror and surprise was visible in the eyes, but the words died in his throat as he watched Gwen make a pass for the metallic watering canister laying unassuming and innocent on the table, before swinging the thing around towards Merlin, connecting with the side of his temple with a dull thud.

Merlin barely had the time to register both this and Morgana’s quick gasp before his eyes rolled back, and he crumpled to the floor.

* * *

“...ink he should be coming to now?”

Merlin groaned, hand reaching up to feel at his temple. The world hurt, and while the voices flittering in and out were spoken softly, they felt far too thunderous, especially after such a blow to the head. It was cruel, to be a world so unpleasant and still demanding that one return to consciousness, especially when it was easier to simply fall back into deep rest, and forget about vases and magic and surprisingly durable watering cans.

Merlin made to sit up, deciding that he still did indeed have responsibilities in the waking world, and that a few people would be rather upset if he was no longer around to fulfill such responsibilities, but the motion was stopped by a rough hand on his shoulder. His fingers curled around something soft, the first and only nicety of his current predicament, and he came to the realization that he was no longer a pitiful pile on the floor, but rested carefully on the fluffiest bed he’d ever felt. It was a feat to open his eyes, a ringing reverberating through his head, but Merlin managed, and Gwen’s furrowed brows and pouting lips swam into existence.

“Merlin! I, oh, I’m so sorry! I just, I panicked. I wasn’t sure what you saw, nor what you were going to do. It seemed wise, in the moment, but then you were hardly breathing! I was afraid I’d hit you a tad too hard,” she said with celerity, not making eye contact with Merlin, who was, quite frankly, admiring how she managed to fit so many words in so few breaths. “Not that I’m insinuating that you cannot hold your own against me, I’m sure you’re plenty strong, when you aren’t surprised, that’s all. We were going to take you to Gaius if you did not wake soon, but we would rather have the chance to speak to you, uhm, before…”

She trailed off, bunching her fingers in the dress she wore.

“Before you had the chance to decide if you were to turn me in,” Morgana’s voice filled in. Merlin shifted, noting he _was_ in fact on top of her bed, before spotting her just off to the side of the room. She was sitting at the vanity between the two large windows, the light significantly faded from the last time Merlin was conscious. Her chair was turned, so she faced the bed. Her chin was held high, and Merlin thought she should look almost unbothered by the events of the early day, except for the red rim around her eyes, steadily green and focused.

There was fear there, Merlin thought, and then immediately felt insurmountable guilt for it. For all their years of friendship, Morgana was still the king’s ward, and Merlin was still the servant to the Prince of Camelot. It makes a sad sort of sense, for her to hold an air of distrust for matters concerning magic. Merlin had always been sure to broach the topic with perfect neutrality when necessary, after all, which included any passing statements made around Morgana, which meant, of course, that she could not know just how opinionated he was about magic, and which way his favor swayed when debating the intrinsic good or evil it possessed.

“...I am not going to turn you in. I promise it,” Merlin said slowly, as if he could possibly employ enough certainty into those words that Morgana or Gwen would understand that he could be trusted in this, that it was a conscious choice to commit treason of the most treasonous kind, and not merely for something as honourable as blind trust, but for reasons that bubbled under his skin and made him unusually conscious of the door and of the guards who must be only just outside, yipping to break the boredom of duty with something much more palatable, like the seizing and henceforth murdering of evil sorcerers. Magic was never something Merlin was able to discuss opening, or even much at all, especially not in Ealdor, and even more so in Camelot, where even the slightest suggestion of mystical persuasion earned Merlin a swift knock on the head and not so swift lecture by Gaius, who feared Merlin’s execution far more than Merlin ever permitted for himself, too busy saving Camelot and its prince to fret too much over such negligible details.

It had been just a little niggling of a notion, in the back of his mind, since he first suspected and then confirmed Morgana’s potential for magic, and it overwhelmed him with full force now, that he wanted to tell her. Living in Camelot was a lonely thing, when one had magic. Merlin had Gaius, and a dragon, to confer with, but those conversations always were centered around how to solve some problem or another, only discussed when an assassin or sorcerer or creature stole the title for “biggest arsehole to try and kill Arthur”, which had been given to numerous beings, sometimes several times in a week, and there was no solace for a good-natured conversation about magic, like favorite spells, or how amusing it was that there were so many different kinds of spells for hair growth, or how Merlin had yet to turn someone into a frog, but desperately wanted to try, but Gaius refused to humor him with magical small-talk, and the dragon only spoke in riddles, if he spoke at all, having much better things to do with his time than indulge some teenage warlock, though Merlin thought that was a lie to get rid of him, since there wasn’t really much to do in a cave, he thought.

Telling Morgana would be a relief.

Merlin couldn’t see any evil in her, and he squinted at her now, for good measure, like if there was any prowess for cruelty lurking in visible prospect he would be able to pinpoint it now and see this... _witch_ that Kilgharrah feared so much, but all he saw was Morgana, same as he always had, though his initial infatuation upon arriving in Camelot had retreated soon as he realized she could probably eviscerate him, magic or not, and that it felt disrespectful, actually, to view Morgana as a Lady to be courted, when she made such a valiant effort to be anything else. She was a sorcerer, in Camelot, and was perhaps in an even more frightening position than he, who had the option (but not really, if you asked Arthur) to quit his job, but Morgana could not up and quit being the King’s ward.

Morgana turned from where she had locked eyes with the bedpost just to the left of Melin’s eyeline, her regard solid, and not at all wavering, unlike Merlin’s heartbeat, which was making a rather impressive imitation of an organ trying its damndest to thump its way right out of his chest, and, finally, she let out a sigh that sounded more sad than anything else, thought there was palpable relief descending over the three of them. Gwen tossed back another glance, brows sculpting back into concern as Morgana simply let out a breathy laugh, not unlike the kind that escapes when one has survived some tremulous experience, not by any type of particular skill, but because luck simply chose to be kind. There were new tears in her eyes, though they seemed intent not to fall, but to naturally glisten Morgana’s eyes.

“What are you going to do?” She asked instead, undertaking the unenviable role of determining, what, exactly, was to be done, in a situation that usually held only one verifiable cessation, namely the fiery kind, or the sharp one, if mercy were granted. “I never meant for anyone to discover this. I thought I may handle this alone, if only to prevent the people I care about burning right alone next to me.”

“I wouldn’t let Uther do that to you,” Merlin cut in.

She smiled, just a tad. “I appreciate that, Merlin. You’ve always been a friend, which is why I must admit that I am sorry,” She resolved. “Your life is irrevocably changed, and for my secret. It’s treason to repress a sorcerer just as much as it is to exist as one. I’m sorry. You don’t deserve this.”

“And you do?”

Morgana swallowed, ignoring the thick in her throat. “I never meant for this. For my magic, I mean. I’ve never sought it out, never practiced it, hardly ever knew it aside from all the executions.” She stood now, and took a step forward, dress moving in a pretty way that felt rude for such an unpretty state of affairs, and then stopped, thinking better of herself. “It just...happened. I would wake up, and something would happen. A candle, or the window, or a vase. Nothing else could explain the things I would see, except that I was the one causing them.”

In lamenting over Morgana’s predicament, Merlin’s headache lay forgotten. He first knew of several relations; that he should, and could, with finality, tell Morgana of her magic, and then of his own. Safe was not quite the word to describe it, as he did still live in Camelot, and Camelot did still kill his own generally, but consolation, almost, that he did not have to live alone and bear it all on his skinny shoulders, that he should have a friend amidst dragons and physician, not mere guardians, and a Lady may be quite content for it.

“Magic...doesn’t necessarily have to be a bad thing. It’s not the...Er, I just think, it’s not an evil, like Uther preaches. I mean, nothing is inherently evil, right? It cannot be black and white, and it shouldn’t be treated like so, I suppose, uh, I mean. Oh! Like that sorcerer who was burned last week,” Merlin grimaced; Morgana winced. “She practiced _healing_ magic. She was trying to save her neighbor, the florist? He was sick, and wasn’t getting better, even Gaius didn’t know what to do, so she tried to heal him,” He said, haltingly, as Morgana nodded along. “It’s not all bad.” The hesitation in his words felt not of his own, but remnants from the way he was raised, or more aptly, taught, to gather up any conversation pertaining to matters of the magical kind, and take those words, and thoughts, and shove them way down, which was difficult; for all his Mother’s wails, he still did not fear magic like he needed to, and was expected to.

A look; towards the door, away from his raising, mother and mentor, who wanted so desperately quiet from the boy who would not, possibly could not, turn from magic, as Merlin determined with sufficient clarity that Uther was not to overhear what we wanted to say, finally.

“Morgana,” Merlin resettled on the bed, “I can help you.”

“How?” Gwen interjected, looking like an wide-eyed owl, or perhaps just a maidservant who was at her wit’s end, having gone through the stressful intervals of helping her Lady practice magic in secret, to promptly concussing a friend, and now the less tense (but still rather tense) inevitable consequences of those actions, without the usual respite between.

“The Druids. They help people like you, people who have magic.”

“Uther would never allow it. The man would rather die,” Morgana scoffed, clearing her throat from the tightness the night had instilled on it.

“He wouldn’t have to know. I, I can help you sneak out, undetected. It’s actually quite easy, if you, uhm. Know how, I suppose,” Merlin paused.

A beat.

“It’s too dangerous,” Gwen spoke, firmly deciding that she was to be a voice of reason, since clearly, and it should have been expected with these two, really, that neither Merlin nor Morgana had any qualms about minor treason, with the speaking, or major treason, with the magic. “My Lady, Morgana, please. What if Uther catches you? Or, if the Druids hurt you? Surely you see how much danger you would be putting yourself in?”

“Aren’t I already in danger, simply by having the potential for magic? Uther’s killed for less. I’d be safer if I could learn how to control it.” Morgana walked to the bed, where Merlin was beginning to get the feeling that he should probably get off, lest a guard waltz in, and kill him for impeding on Morgana's propriety, and not the magic, after all. Oblivious to the turmoil, she sat on the edge, opposite to Gwen, and placed a gentle hand on Merlin’s shoulder. “I want to speak to the Druids, but I don’t wish for you to be in danger.”

“I won’t, I promise. I know what I’m doing, for once,” He laughed, but quickly sobered. The mood simply did not dictate it.

“Merlin? Why are you so sure you’ll be able to help us?” Gwen asked, nervously picking at her already broken nails. “I only mean, how do you plan to locate the Druids? I thought, no one has contact with them, right? At least not in Camelot?”

Merlin paused, again. It was a fragile thing, to have magic, and the subsequent revealing of said magic. He thought, for a moment, that it may be possible, if only difficult, to help Morgana without saying, or showing, that he too possessed certain illicit abilities, but scrubbed the notion from his mind just as quickly. She deserved to know, and so now most of his hesitation bore from the humiliation of being the same and never disclosing, for he hated being a liar, but an honest sorcerer was an oxymoron. It was necessary to lie, sometimes, even, and especially, to close friends, who had much more power than strangers, because they were loved, and it was harder to imagine that they may hate him, one day. Familiar was regret, though. It picked at him, every time he made a friend and knew they could not know him as he was. He felt it everyday with Arthur, who trusted, incredibly, Merlin, without pause, but Merlin did not, could not, trust him with his magic, though it was made for him. He felt it with Gwen, who was too smart to not know he was hiding, behind or from something, but too kind to mention it, rather choosing to be a support, where she knew he had few. He felt it with Morgana, who he betrayed with his withholding, dancing around her magic without admitting his own. He was Regret, entirely, and had been his whole life.

They would forgive him, though he lied, he thought; hoped, desperately, that he would not lose them. He could tell them, and would.

He thought of Arthur, and if he could ask the same of him, of their forgiveness. He thought it was worse, actually, with him, because while he adored the girls, he had done something unforgivable with Arthur, which was, namely: to love him, and he could not do that and be a sorcerer, or a liar, which he was both, and unable to quit.

“I can find them,” Merlin ceased existing as he was. “With my--magic.”

The ceiling did not immediately come crashing down, nor did Uther order the assembly of a pyre post-haste, and Arthur did not yet know to hate him, so Merlin thought already that it had gone better than he anticipated, which is to say, because he had never quite anticipated that he would willingly admit his magic to another being in Camelot, he had both unrelenting expectations and absolutely none at all. The ball, so to speak, was no longer in his court (an expression Merlin picked up after being dragged into a round of game-ball with some of Arthur’s knights, to his general displeasure), and he so he placed his heart, metaphorically, and head, literally, into their hands.

“Oh,” Was the consensus of the room, though it was Gwen who gave audibility to the otherwise intangible thought. “Wait, but you-” She halted, blew a puff of hot air, and leaned back into herself.

It was henceforth straightforward, that Morgana should begin to cackle. “Merlin!” She cawed, shoulders shaking with the durability of her laughter. “You cannot be serious.”

“I am! I’m a sorcerer!” Merlin argued, incredulously. “I was-- My magic is like yours. I didn’t practice it, or anything, or at least not really, but at least _now_ I have this _book_ , but I was never... _studied_ , in the matter, so to speak?”

“Why did you never tell us?” Gwen recovered from her bewilderment, and relieved Merlin of his ramble, which he appreciated, since he wasn’t sure how to stop, and now displayed a look of sympathy, or concern, or one of the other looks not usually warranted for sorcerers.

Merlin shrugged, both of the question and of her disquietude. “It was never safe to.”

“I wish you could have trusted us,” Morgana was solemn, and lacked the snark that usually shadowed her words, which Merlin thought he should take to mean that she wasn’t offended, or hurt, by his apparent discredit, but in an understanding that it wasn’t a lack of trust that kept his secret hidden, but that he plumb could not say, same as she.

“Me too,” He admitted.

Neither spoke of the unfairness, of the inherent injustice. It was too prevalent, and thick in the air, like an angry fog. All one could see was their own hands, and so they had nothing to trust, and could not extend, or grieve, that trust to anyone else; the fog sheltered a duality, in friend and foe, and did not distinguish between the two until one had already reached out, like a child, to grab at hope, and instead found a menace, so it was easier, and surely far safer, to keep his hands by his side.

Morgana’s features did a wonderful imitation of the fabric between Gwen's fingers, which, is to say, were scrunched up, as she pushed off the bed with one hand and resumed standing. She towered over both Merlin and Gwen, which he thought made her look powerful, and respectable, which, he also thought, was probably her intention.

“So it’s settled then. Merlin and I will find the Druids, leave Camelot, and learn to control our magic,” She proclaimed, looking rather smug at having been able to say the words ‘our magic’, like she found it exhilarating to exist as the thing her King despised, right under his nose. “Gwen, I know I’ve already dragged you into this simply by being your friend, but the choice is yours, if you are to join us or not. I don’t wish to see you hurt.”

“Uhm,” Merlin cut in, hand half raised. “I can’t leave Camelot. I can take you to her borders, for sure, and point you towards the Druids, and make sure you’ll be safe, but that’s all.”

“You aren’t coming with us?” Gwen posed; Morgana flicked her eyes to her.

“I can’t. I’m sorry, really, and normally, I’d probably jump at the chance, but I have...responsibilities, things to uphold, really important things actually, and it’s probably better that I stay in Camelot for the time being,” He shrugged.

“I wouldn’t really say Arthur’s chores count as ‘ _really important things_ ’,” Morgana quipped.

“It’s not about Arthur,” He lied, and blushed to his neck, which told the truth. “Okay, it’s a little about Arthur. It’s my destiny.”

Gwen had an eyebrow raised, and Morgana simply looked like a girl who knew exactly everything.

“You, Merlin, are the strangest man I’ve ever met,” Morgana said, and that was all.

* * *

To say that the remainder of the evening (which was steadily pitching itself into a deeper and deeper shade of indigo) went well was subjective, as either party could testify. Gwen saw to it to begin preparing her Lady for bed, which meant that, as Merlin and Morgana bonded over the mutually assured destruction of their lives, she flitted about the room, righting the sheets which Merlin had crumpled, sweeping up the shards of ceramic, and fetching Morgana’s night dress from the drawers. Morgana, on the other, was serious, and accosted Merlin about his own magic, and how did he use it, and who else knew (Gaius does, he had said, and maybe a few people here and there, and ignored the pointed way Morgana considered the lack of Arthur's name in the list), and if he knew any spells.

“Sure,” Merlin said, and grabbed one of the several candles littered about the room, and blew it out.

“Merlin!” Gwen cried, having just lit the thing.

“Sorry! Sorry, I can fix it, just watch,” He said, and his eyes glowed gold, and the flame reintroduced itself with a dance. Morgana leaned forward, interest pitching her shoulders up with a start.

The sheen of her eyes now alight with the yellow of fire, she looked down at her own hands, like she was wondering if they, too, could do something as miraculous as light a flame, and not in the mundane way she had been doing for years.

“I’ve been taught for so long that magic was something to be feared. That the people who practiced magic were only in it for the destruction of Camelot, not that they, too, were only people.” Morgana sighed. “But that really isn’t right, is it? Uther has done nothing but peddle lies and conspiracy for decades,” She said, and her eyes snuffed out that fire, and filled with darkness.

“He’s scared, Morgana. He doesn’t understand magic, like you or I,” Merlin huried. “I think that a lot of people fear what they do not know, and Uther’s no exception. He’s...he’s done terrible things, I know, and it’s unfair, and cruel, but he is still King, and I don’t think anyone is gonna be able to change his mind on that. When Arthur is king, things will be different.”

“You really believe that?”

“I have to,” He asserted. “He’s a good man, and he will be an even greater king.” The corners of Merlin’s lips quipped up, just slightly, but in those dimples he remembered Arthur, and all the fantastic things he had done, and what he would do. It was worth it, he thought, and smiled all over again.

“I hope, Merlin, for both our sakes, that you’re right,” Morgana relented. “I don’t know how you stand it. Knowing how Camelot feels about magic, and still choosing to be here.”

“Destiny, mostly,” Merlin chirped “And, just between us, but I don’t think Arthur knows how to dress on his own. The man’s _hopeless_ without my absolutely _immaculate_ service; I’m doing Camelot a favor, actually.”

She laughed. “Don’t let him hear you say that, he may pile on even more chores just to make a point. He’s stubborn, like that.”

“I’m terribly sorry to interrupt,” Gwen said, not much sorry at all, “But it’s getting rather late?” She pitched her voice up into a question, like she was asking for permission to comment on the night, rather than simply point out the fact that, yes, it _was_ late, so late that it was black with it, and the lot of them should probably retire.

“I can come back tomorrow, when it’s safe. Arthur has training the next day, so he’ll be wanting to kip down earlier than usual, so a bit after sunset, then?”

“We probably shouldn’t meet here. I can’t exactly have secret meetings in my quarters, can I? The guards, incompetent as they are, will notice eventually.”

“What about my home? It’s not particularly far,” Gwen suggested.

Merlin considered it for a moment, and grinned. “That should work.”

* * *

Merlin walked down the corridors, no more than the compline later, towards the hall that would break off into the physician’s chambers. There was a small smile still plastered to his face, and his steps were light; so light, in fact, you may say that he was positively floating with glee, and relief. The world felt different, he thought, and knew it to be for his destiny; a moment, unforetold--a choice that felt, finally, his own.

However, if you ignored the boy, and the stones below his feet, and even the dirt and rocks and worms below that, you might just about hear a dragon.

A Dragon, who roared and thrashed and yelled,

“ _MERLIN_!”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whats up guys i forgot this fic existed  
> I call this chapter, "nothing happens whatsoever, enjoy"

The day started with a habit that Arthur had come to expect: with the sun directly in his eyes as Merlin yanked the burgundy curtains open with a demeanor far too cheerful for such an early hour.

“Rise and shine!” He called, notoriously rowdy for a servant.

“Merlin,” Arthur said. “What have I told you about waking me like that?”

“To do it that way every day because you love it so much?”

Arthur grabbed the pillow next to him and flung the thing with enough vigor to put the fear of God into man, yet Merlin was simply unbothered, having no pretense for God one way or another, and having come to trust in the routine just as much as he.

The sheets and blankets were tossed aside as Arthur stood, stretching his upper back in the process. His shoulder had begun to ache with more potency lately, possibly as a result of the new drills he introduced to the younger squires, three of whom should be concerned with a career in church or law rather than knighthood, judged by their feeble attitudes to some of the more taxing discipline.

Arthur, having no other means of entertainment in the early morning, watched as Merlin fumbled around the room, as he had done dozens of times before. He, Arthur noted, tended to walk rather much like an overconfident fawn, one who did not appear to understand how to move its legs, but did so anyway with so much misplaced swagger that Arthur had to wonder just if that was simply Merlin, or if all country peasant boys had the same comportment. The pillow, once sagging on the ground, returned to its rightful place next to all the others on the bed. The sheets, straightened.

Merlin, oddly silent.

“You’re awful quiet,” Arthur remarked,

“Am I? Hadn’t noticed.” Merlin quipped, one corner of his mouth pulling tight in what might be called a smirk, if one had never actually seen a smirk, and was only going off hearsay.

Quiet was not the only word Arthur would use to describe Merlin that particular morning. Jumpy, perhaps. Antsy, impatient, excited. The man could hardly stand to be still (not altogether too unusual) and, when sat, improperly, at Arthurs dining seat to begin polishing, the _tap tap tap_ of his feet set out to drive Arthur completely mad.

He, having now finished dressing behind the screen, stepped out to continue his observations.

When Arthur was a boy, barely fourteen and newly squired, he was once asked to sit in on a council meeting with his father and then, having spent nearly two hours in the company of some of the more morose members, asked what he had learned. Eager to impress, Arthur had begun reciting grain values from memory, and was promptly silenced, and asked again, but with more emphasis on what he had _learned._ He had, after all, already been aware of the rations from his own reports. And so it began one of many of Uther’s lessons: how to learn a person beyond what they outwardly present. That day, Arthur told his father that he suspected one attribute was a drunkard, and the other, an adulterer. The alcohol had been easy to spot, or rather, smell, but he declared the second man on the way he shifted his feet when speaking about the lower town and its inhabitants. He was correct on both fronts, and his teachings on the inner mannerism of observation had begun in earnest.

It was with this same scrutiny that Arthur gave to his friend. He knew the glaring signs of secrets, or dishonesty, and though Merlin had not quite yet lied to him, Arthur knew he wasn’t likely to get the truth if he enquired.

But, as established, Arthur rarely debated the intricate delicacies of talking to a friend, since he so rarely had one, and could be rather blunt when it came to these sorts of things.

“Merlin,” Arthur announced, striding towards his desk, laden with reports and studies and other sorts of princely things. “What’s the matter with you?”

“Wow. Aren’t you just the epitome of grace?”

“Shut up. You’re never this quiet unless you’ve something to hide. Out with it, what sort of trouble are you in now? And why do you keep looking out the window? Somewhere to be, Merlin?”

Merlin glared at Arthur from behind the hauberk being abused into a more presentable shine, and scrunched his nose up until he resembled a rabbit, which reminded Arthur that he needed to schedule another hunt, and made a note of it on the margins of a paper on his desk.

“Nothin’s wrong with me Arthur. And maybe I do have somewhere to be!”

Arthur scoffed, and kicked his feet up to his desk, not really caring much for being proper this early in the morning. It was only them two, and neither he nor Merlin would be offended by the lack of propriety. “Really? You, somewhere to be? Merlin, where in the world could you possibly have to go, besides where I send you?”

Arthur watched, curiously, as Merlin went all stiff in the shoulders, and the repetitive motions of his hands stilled to a pace hardly enough to polish anything, let alone mud-stained chainmail. 

Oh. 

Sometimes, Arthur, in a shameful practice of being obtuse, revived the gap between himself and his manservant. He was no idiot, and liked to think he did know Merlin fairly well, which was just enough to know that he did not know him at all. The man was an open book in a foreign language (and not one that Arthur studied; or, rather, one that Uther required Arthur to study).

This is all to say that Arthur thought to himself that he probably should not have said that, because he didn’t _own_ Merlin, and the man probably didn’t like being managed as such, even if it was pleasant to poke and tease at him, and that he most likely had a life outside the one he presented to his employer.

Unbeknownst to Arthur, Merlin froze not due to some battering urge to defend his own circumstances, but because he rather could not admit to aiding and abetting a sorcerer within Camelot’s walls, or admit to being one in the first place, and was now regretting saying much of anything at all.

“I. Uhm,” He stumbled, and cringed away his own ineptitude.

“No, I apologize. I’m sure you have somewhere very important to be, Merlin. I would love to know what it is.” Arthur said, and also cringed, but for his uniquely royal way of fucking up an earnest statement into something so horribly condescending.

“Nowhere,” Merlin said, and felt like evaporating into air. Arthur hiked an eyebrow (though not one as impressive as Gaius), and came to the dreadful (though accurate) conclusion that Merlin did not want to say what he was doing, or, worse, who he would be with.

“Nowhere.” Arthur deadpanned. “I suppose it makes sense, that someone as daft as you would end up exactly nowhere.”

“I’m not daft! I’m going to be with, a, uhm, friend?” Merlin visibly winced.

“A friend? Who?” 

“You wouldn’t know them, they’re a peasant like me, so, obviously overlooked by you royal folk,” Merlin said, and punctuated his sentence with the clattering of the hauberk on the table, which, all in all, felt more substantial than any lie he’d told so far.

“I wouldn’t be so quick to judge, _Mer_ lin. Come on, who is it? A girl?”

Hesitation is often the killer of men, or at least the general embarrassment of most. Merlin took his own hesitation at Arthur’s theory to be the careful considerations of a calm and collected man who simply thought about the words he was establishing into the air, rather than just shoving them out there; Arthur, on the other hand, took Merlin’s hesitation to be of the sort that came from men who had been caught guilty, and figured that Merlin did, in fact, have a girl, and a clandestine one no less.

“No,” Was what Merlin eventually settled on, though too late, since Arthur was now mentally striking through a list of every girl he had ever so much as observed in Merlin’s company, and could not be bothered to consider any other suggestion, such as the fact that Merlin in no way implied any relation with a maiden, secret or otherwise.

He squinted in the general direction of his servant and tried to imagine him with a girl. He was just so… _bony_! Did women find that attractive nowadays? What kind of women? Had he met her? Was Merlin going to marry her? He did not know, and neither did his grain reports, presumably, since he had been gawking at them for several minutes to no avail. 

“Okay. Uhm. I think Gaius is calling me, so I’m going to go. Help him, with, herbs and the such.” 

Arthur looked up from the offending reports, and made a show of shifting his whole body towards the window, which, as he was trying to manifest, was still full of light.

“Merlin, it isn’t even midday. You’re still on my payroll, which means you should be expected to serve me until nightfall? Unless I’ve forgotten how this works, which, in that case, please do inform me, I can’t be seen making such _careless_ mistakes.”

“I’ve really got to go, Arthur, have a nice day!” Merlin yelled as he practically catapulted himself from the chair, which scraped itself over the tile floors with an astounding screech, and slipped out the door with all the energy of a man with nothing to fear, or perhaps with all too much to fear, as Arthur scowled at his retreating back with the resignation of a man all too use to Merlin’s antics.

* * *

_That could have gone better_

Merlin walked ungracefully through the rather crowded castle halls, and avoided a near collision with a maid through none of the magical means, and all through stumbling and hasty apologies shouted over his shoulder.

_No shit! He probably thinks you insane at this point; you ran from, what? The assumption that you’re off courting a woman?_

Another maid shot him a less than pleasant glare, and Merlin was left contemplating the general niceness of the castle staff as he recoiled at a gesture he’d only seen in the tavern, and from men much less pretty than she.

_May as well actually tend to Gaius. I guess I didn’t lie after all!_

Gaius greeted Merlin with about as much enthusiasm as he expected; which, is to say, happy to have a few lending hands, but overall confused as to their sudden availability. 

“I suppose I could use more arnica, if it’s not too much trouble.” Gaius accepted.

“Lots of people coming in with sprains?”

“Yes, actually. Too many overeager squires with even less common sense than you, it seems.” Gaius left his station where he was doing what any decent physician did, which was pulverizing several leaves into a paste, which may be swallowed, or applied, or whichever one Merlin could not recall. His time was usually spent with Arthur, and not at his initial teachings which brought him to Camelot in the first place. A more studious man might have been upset by this, except Merlin was never one for structured learning, and preferred to be taught by the natural and worldly way: through general trial and error, and, by consequence of his tenacity, mostly error.

“Hey!”

“I will rethink my stance on your common sense once you stop leaving Arthur at a moment's notice, lest the man suspect something unseemly of you,” Gaius quipped, letting his hands scan over his stock of bottles, skimming over a select few, and collected two before placing them back at the desk: this routine of gathering bottles and moving them about contributed to about half his workload, all the glory of being an old man in charge of keeping an entire castle healthy, or at least something in the broad definition.

“I’m sure it's fine. Arthur probably wouldn’t notice if I instated a circus in his chambers; sneaking off is hardly going to be the breaking point,” Merlin laughed, and set off to gather herbs, and mostly just waste time, since he still had a days worth of time to pass before he could reconvene with Gwen and Morgana.

“Be careful, my boy,” Gaius muttered unheard; a plea, or perhaps a prayer, for the son who had the nasty habit of not heeding trouble till he was knee-deep.

* * *

_MERLIN.._

He sighed, lamenting over the pitiful bunch of flowers he’d crushed in his hands at the unsubtle startle of an all too familiar voice in his head. Merlin figured the dragon wanted to talk about Morgana, but he wasn’t exactly looking forward to being lectured, or listening to another spiel about her evilness, so he’d been doing something he wouldn’t exactly label sulking, but it was absolutely sulking, and it wasn’t going to work much longer.

Merlin yanked a few more weeds from the grounds, shoved them into the satchel hanging loosely from his shoulder, and promised to get arnica _and_ yarrow to make up for it as he abandoned his work in favor of something far less favorable: his destiny.

If Merlin was a more observant man (which is to say, had any sort of detectable skill whatsoever) he might have noticed the man standing just off the edge of the field, who had been watching Merlin for the better part of an hour, but, as demonstrated, he had none, and so the man went unnoticed and undeterred, and continued to sneak about Merlin all the way back to the castle, and into her depths.

* * *

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” Merlin lied, and felt rather nice about it, since he still held a grudge against Kilgharrah for doing the sorts of things he began to associate with dragons, like being a snide, cryptic and overdramatic lizard.

“Young warlock, you have no idea the forces you contend, and it would be wise to not stray from your path, lest the future of Camelot hangs in the balance once more,” Kilgharrah snarled, which subsequently only served to prove Merlin correct on all counts, except for the bit about the lizard, which Kilgharrah may just have to argue, either by lecture, which he was fond of, or by fire, which he was equally so.

“Hm, yeah, not ringing a bell here. Sorry, maybe it was some other person with a destiny? You do seem to hand them out pretty freely.” Merlin shrugged, and tried to lean against the cave wall with all the demeanor of a suave man; he was not, and nearly fell.

“The witch!” The dragon roared. “Why has her destiny changed, warlock? What have you done?”

“Her destiny’s changed?” Merlin murmured, in all the awe and hope of a man locked into a fate of his own. 

Kilgharrah almost laughed, but the wheezing was more comparable to a scoff than anything else. “Not only hers. I can no longer see the intertwined destiny of Camelot; you have caused what I thought to be impossible. How a boy like you is capable of such a thing will always astound me, and will surely continue to cause me great pains.”

“Wait,” Merlin blinked. “Are you saying none of it is true anymore? I mean, what you said about Morgana, and her turning against Camelot, or about that Druid boy and how he’s supposed to kill Arthur?”

“I am saying,” Kilgharrah leaned upon his haunches. “That the destiny once promised to this land is no longer certain, and that you are to blame. What happens now is up to you, warlock, and you alone. Fate no longer plays a role in Camelot’s future, nor in your friend’s lives.”

“Holy shit!” Merlin yelled. “Sorry, sorry. I just, I thought this sort of thing was set in stone? Aren’t prophecies supposed to be pretty, I don’t know, infallible? How can something like that be changed from a single act? All I did was tell Morgana and Gwen about my magic.”

“You did _what?”_

_“_ Sorry! It was the right thing to do, I know that. They didn’t deserve to be lied to, not again..” Merlin did not do what many would do while being yelled at by a dragon, especially in firing range, and cower, but instead stood taller than ever before, and felt euphoric. He could change things, and that changed _everything._

“I can only hope you do the right thing for the future of Camelot, young warlock. You must get the prophecy back on track, after all you’ve done to derail it.”

“All my life, I’ve been told I was different. Then, I was told I had a destiny, some purpose for my magic, and I never even had a choice in who I was, what I needed to do! For the first time, I might actually get a choice. I’m not going to give that up so easily, not now.”

“Then your fate is sealed.”

“Is it? Is it really? You _just_ said you couldn’t see the future anymore. Is this really so bad? To not know? I’d rather make good choices now than be resigned to doing horrible things for the off-chance that the future might be better.”

And with all the stubborn hubris of man, Merlin turned on his heel and walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im on tumblr at lordmemengliish if yall wanna send me asks about this fic or anything else <3


End file.
